


Green-Eyed Monster

by flammablehat



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Dirty Talk, Eavesdropping, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Underage Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 08:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10658691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/pseuds/flammablehat
Summary: There are a lot of things that Yuri shouldn't eavesdrop on, and this is definitely one of them.





	Green-Eyed Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at the Yuri On Ice Kinkmeme:
> 
> Yuri overhears Yuuri and Viktor having sex. He's a teenager, has the biggest crush on Yuuri, so he hates everything about it but he still masturbates to it, and can't look them in the face later.
> 
> If what he witnesses is Yuuri power bottoming the hell out of Viktor, that'd be a bonus.
> 
> * * *
> 
> For your own comfort, please heed the tags and the prompt (above ^^^) that inspired this fic before reading. 
> 
> Many thanks to my love itachitachi for the read-through and the help with the summary because I am useless at summaries, and also to pktsknd for letting me basically shout this fic into existence at her and also for brainstorming the YoI porn with me. Y'all are the best! 
> 
> At this point I'm just nervously chewing my way through kinkmeme prompts to avoid my other projects that are giving me trouble, ahaha...

Yuri can tell they’re surprised to see him when Yuuri opens the door. There’s a silk tie looped around the upturned collar of Yuuri’s dress shirt, the ends hanging loose, and Viktor is in the foyer behind him. His silver head is tilted, fingers busy at his wrists. He’s putting on cufflinks. 

“Yurio?” Yuuri says, opening the door wider in recognition more than invitation. Yuri steps inside anyway. 

“Lilia is staying at Yakov’s tonight.” Yuri dumps his bag under the coat rack. Two pairs of eyes blink at him; Viktor recovers first. 

“Early training tomorrow?” he asks, brushing invisible lint from Yuuri’s shoulders and tapping him to turn around. 

“Why else would Lilia stay at Yakov’s?” Yuri snaps, looking away from Viktor’s hands doing up Yuuri’s tie. “Where are you going?” 

Yuuri’s eyes slide from Yuri’s back to Viktor’s; he runs his fingers under Viktor’s collar to fix the sit of the fabric. “Dinner,” he says, almost hesitant. 

“We have a date.” Viktor grins down into Yuuri’s face. He looks excited the same way a dog might at the sight of a leash. His expression even goes still in the same dog-like way when Yuuri’s attention moves back to Yuri. Leash: withdrawn. 

“Do you want us to stay?” Yuuri asks. Viktor doesn’t protest, but Yuri enjoys the disappointment that flickers in his eyes, behind Yuuri’s back. 

Yuri doesn’t particularly care about ruining Viktor’s night, but Yuuri looks...really nice. They must have finally bought him a real suit. The pants are a very dark blue, tighter than Yuuri usually favors, and terminate in a narrow hem over a pair of highly polished black dress shoes. The tie is silver silk, a gross indulgence of Viktor’s ego since it was obviously chosen to complement his hair. Yuri is willing to bet the tie Viktor hasn’t put on yet is jet black. Idiots. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he says, brushing past them to head into the kitchen. There’s a leftover container tucked behind a jar of pickled radishes (what the fuck?); Yuri snags it and lets the fridge door drift closed behind him. It looks like steak au poivre with some asparagus and carrots. The veggies are more shriveled than they probably were when they were served, but they still taste fine. 

Yuri waits until Viktor and Yuuri emerge from the bedroom again in their suit-jackets to spear the remaining steak on his fork. Yuuri’s jacket is the same color as his pants, with narrow black lapels. As predicted, Viktor’s tie is also black, interrupted only by a thin gold clip. 

Yuri’s rewarded with the brief annoyed pinch in Viktor’s brow as he takes a bite off the filet like it’s an incredibly expensive candy apple. 

“Want us to leave you money for more food?” Yuuri offers. “We’ll probably be out late.”

Mouth full, Yuri says, “No, I’m fine,” smirking in Viktor’s direction. 

Even if he is annoyed, Viktor doesn’t tell Yuri to be gone by the time they get back. He just musses a hand through Yuri’s hair as they pass him and says, “Don’t wait up.”

* * *

When he hears the sound of someone at the door, Yuri’s sprawled on the couch scrolling through Instagram again, even though his feed hasn’t had any new posts in the past three hours. The fumbling and jiggling at the doorknob carries on for so long he starts to wonder if it’s an incredibly inept attempt at a break-in. 

Then Yuuri stumbles inside, Viktor plastered to his back. They’re both making ‘shhh’ noises and Yuuri is giggling, which prods at Yuri and makes him sit up, annoyed. 

“Oh,” Yuuri stops short, and now that Yuri can really see them it’s obvious they’re drunk. Viktor’s face is buried against Yuuri’s neck, doing something that’s clearly distracting judging by the way Yuuri wiggles even though he’s staring at Yuri with his stupid woodland creature eyes. “You’re still awake,” he blurts. 

Viktor looks up, finally. The light in the foyer catches on his lips, which are pinker and fuller and damper than usual. 

“Yurio!” He throws his arms up, both of which are holding leftover containers. The fancy, biodegradable cardboard kind. “We brought you dinner.” Viktor starts to say more, then looks between the boxes suspiciously. After a moment he thrusts one out between them, pointing at Yuri with it. “This one. It’s chicken.”

“I don’t like chicken,” Yuri lies without thinking. 

Viktor’s in the kitchen, putting both boxes in the fridge. “Well, the chicken likes you,” he says wisely. “And it likes your skating. And it wants you to fly, not munch on the earth like a cow.” 

“What?” Yuri says, irritated. Yuuri has a hand wrapped over his mouth but his eyes are dancing. 

“Listen to your coach,” Viktor says, stern. 

Yuri physically recoils. “Hell will freeze over and I will skate for the devil before I let you coach me again.” 

Viktor seems unperturbed, returning to Yuuri and draping himself over his shoulders like an ungainly parrot. They’re both far less crisp than they were when they left; Yuuri’s tie has loosened into a lariat and Viktor’s is crumpled and stretched out like...like someone has been tugging on it. 

“We’re sorry if we woke you up,” Yuuri says, leading Viktor towards their bedroom. “We’ll be quiet.” 

Viktor sniggers, and Yuri feels a familiar surge of anger. But they’re already walking away, backs turned to him, and he can’t think of anything biting enough to say before they close the door behind them. 

Yuri throws himself back onto the couch and hooks his phone up to charge. He hesitates before shooting off a text to Beka, because it’s just past four in the morning in Almaty and their friendship is new enough that texting first and at a weird hour could come off wrong. He compensates by emphasizing just how fucking stupid his hosts are with some extra skull, knife, and eye-rolling emojis. Beka is probably awake by now, but Yuri doesn’t expect a response; he’ll be off to train soon enough and then he won’t respond on the chance that Yuri has fallen asleep. Yuri’s on his own with Instagram again. 

He doesn’t even know why he’s still awake. He could sleep if he wanted to, but for some reason he doesn’t want to close his eyes. It just adds to his frustration. The whole point of crashing at Viktor’s was to avoid a restless night tip-toeing around the silent, not entirely friendly (but not exactly unfriendly, either) tension between Lilia and Yakov. 

Thankfully, neither Yuuri nor Viktor had suggested he go stay with his grandpa, who doesn’t live near a convenient bus line like Yakov and can’t afford to live down the street from the rink like _Viktor_. It’s not something the Russian team doesn’t already know, but Viktor is an asshole who forgets things. Yuri doesn’t know if Yuuri knows, or if he’s just too polite and reserved to pry. He supposes he should be a little more grateful they let him stay, no questions asked. 

Sighing, he gets up to brush his teeth. Lilia won’t take it easy on him just because he’s tired. He walks silently, because he is not a drunk moron with lead feet. A noise makes him still as he’s turning on the bathroom light; he couldn’t have actually woken anyone up with the way he was moving, could he? 

The sound comes again — a low moan — and Yuri realizes the noise has nothing to do with him in the same instant his heart starts pounding against his ribs. 

He should go back to the living room. He should put on his headphones and focus on catching Pokemon. He hasn’t touched the app in months but he’s pretty sure there was a Persian loitering around the last time he was here, and— it’s quiet again. Maybe...he just imagined it? 

He has to pass their bedroom to get back to the couch. He tiptoes closer, leaning towards their door in spite of himself, and hears “ _Viktor_ —” long and low. 

Yuri freezes. He stops breathing. 

There is no mistaking that...for anything other than what it is. The beat of his heart in his chest starts to feel bruising, just as hard as before but twice as fast. He needs to walk away now. He needs to have walked away five minutes ago, he should have known this was likely to happen and should never have put himself in a position to make a choice. 

Yuri doesn’t move except to look towards the couch. His gaze only lingers for a second; it doesn’t matter. He already knows what he’s going to do. He watches his socked feet slide forward on the carpet, testing for squeaks in the floor before he puts any weight down, and shifts over until his toes just kiss the trim of the doorjamb. 

This close, he can hear rustling. Rhythmic breathing. _Someone_ is making soft little huffing sounds, over and over. When he puts his ear to the door, he can hear his hair slide against the wood and then, quite clearly, “Yeah, yeah I’m ready, come on Viktor _come on_ —”

Arousal hits him like a switch being flipped. He can’t move his hands — he’s not brave enough to risk it, so he keeps them clenched around the wood trim of the door like he’s holding onto a ledge. Seconds later, in disjointed tandem, there’s a harsh “Fuck, fuck,” and a sharp intake of breath — almost a gasp. 

Yuri’s dick is so hard the stiffness itches, distending the front of his track pants. It’s just another annoying thing he’s going to have to live with, like the knowledge of how fucked up it is he’s invading their privacy like this. It sits messily in his stomach, churning with his need to hear more. For a long moment it’s just his own shallow breathing, loud to his own ears, until bedsprings start to squeak. 

It’s all he gets for awhile. If there’s anything more intimate to be heard, it’s lost under the more mundane sounds of movement and filtered out by the obstruction of space and wood. Even so, it’s got Yuri’s pulse racing, a soundtrack for his imagination as he summons mental pictures of Yuuri on his hands and knees, Yuuri’s soft mouth hanging open with pleasure, Yuuri getting fucked and loving it, wanting it. The pace picks up for a second and carries Yuri’s excitement with it, and then it slows again. There are stretches where the sound stops almost altogether and Yuri feels something like panic, wondering if they’ve finished and he somehow didn’t notice?

Then he hears Viktor — Yuri’s almost positive it’s Viktor; his voice is lower — say something. The bed creaks with irregular noise like they’re shifting, and there’s a flurry of giggles that startles Yuri and almost makes him bump his head into the door when he jerks. 

He can only guess at the little intimacies they’re up to in there. It makes something painful and sour clench around his heart. It’s stupid, and he shouldn’t do it, but he’s already made enough stupid and hurtful decisions tonight that this one can’t make much difference, not least because it will only hurt him: he imagines himself in Viktor’s place. He pictures himself nibbling at Yuuri’s neck and making him laugh, being allowed to kiss him, being the one Yuuri crinkles his eyes and his stupid piggy nose at. 

It’s only fitting when there’s a burst of sound all at once that tears Yuri from his fantasy — the thump of a headboard and a strangled moan and protesting bedsprings. They fill him with the sudden certainty that Viktor has started fucking Yuuri hard. 

Yuuri makes little ‘ah!’ cries on the heels of every impact of the headboard and he’s getting progressively louder, to the point where Yuri knows he would’ve heard something even if he had been on the couch minding his own business this whole time. The noises cut off again and there’s more laughter; Yuri’s chest compresses with terror when he hears his own name — _Yura_ , not _Yuuri_ — but then he hears Viktor say ‘sleeping’ and realizes he’s chiding Yuuri for his volume and Yuri’s ribs feel like they’re cracking with the expansive heat of his rage. 

Once again the bedroom is quiet. There’s more shuffling. Another position change? Yuri startles a second time at a slapping noise and the little yelp that follows. It’s not difficult to picture the face Viktor is making when he says “ _You like that_?” Does the idiot think he’s shooting a porno? Yuuri’s response comes in Japanese, leaving only the tone to be interpreted — hot and strained with a challenging edge.

Yuri doesn’t speak Japanese, but there’s something about the musical consonant sounds that snakes right into his gut, his desire spiking and briefly painful. Yuuri babbles with the renewed rhythm of the headboard tapping the wall, sweet and plaintive, and Viktor must be pretty far gone because he’s not hushing Yuuri anymore and he’s not stopping.

The last thing Yuri expects to hear is Russian. When he thinks about it later, he won’t be able to say why, but in the moment it takes his brain a second to switch back to his native tongue. When he does, his mouth falls open, outrage flaring and losing a swift and brutal battle to a wave of lust that almost shakes him off his feet.

“Such a pretty slut for me, my Yuuri,” Viktor speaks with the kind of reverent voice you’d expect to hear in church. “Just like that, baby, come on, let me see you, let me see you fuck yourself on my cock.” 

The blood rushing through Yuri’s body is scalding. He can picture them now — Yuuri bouncing in Viktor’s lap, pink all over with exertion and embarrassment. He can even understand why Viktor wouldn’t want Yuuri to know what he’s saying — it’s callous and raw and so fucking hot it doesn’t matter. Viktor calls Yuuri _beautiful_ and _desperate for it_ in the same breath and it sounds like the most worshipful, private thing Yuri’s ever heard anyone say to another person. 

For his part, Yuuri has dissolved into broken little shards of noise that suddenly warp high and short. Back to English, Viktor’s chanting “Yes, sweetheart, yes,” and Yuri realizes Yuuri is coming. 

It hits him like a punch to the solar plexus. They’re fucking like they’ve completely forgotten they’re not alone, they’re not the only two people in the world right now.

Yuri stumbles away from the door. He doesn’t even think about the noise he might make. He knows he won’t be heard over the sounds inside the room. He knows it would take more than creaking floorboards to pull their focus to anything other than each other at the moment. 

He falls back against the closed bathroom door and slumps down onto the cool tile with neither grace nor control. The front of his pants is a sticky, damp mess, and his hands shake as he pushes them off his hips. The first touch of his own palm makes him choke. Yuri’s been desperate to come before, he’s tried teasing himself and drawing out a jerk-off session, but it’s not the same. A dial in his head has been cranked as far as it will go, and this is the first time he’s ever recognized orgasm as a release valve for anything more than physical need.

He only gets as far as imagining the painfully tight grip on his cock is Yuuri kneeling over him before come spatters across the floor, two heavy jets that have him throwing his head back and gasping. The remainder dribbles over his knuckles, little pulses that he strips out with rapid, careless strokes. 

Yuri can’t remember ever coming so hard in his life. He feels sick.

* * *

“Missing practice is not like you, Yuratchka,” Yakov sighs over the phone, after he’s gotten through the yelling. 

“I’m almost there,” Yuri says, rolling his eyes and kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. 

“So late it doesn’t matter. Lilia does not teach you at your convenience. You should be grateful, not churlish and unrepentant.” 

“Yeah, well, if you want someone to yell at, try Viktor. He’s the shithead who kept me up half the night,” Yuri snarls. The minute the words leave his mouth he knows he’s made a mistake. His stomach turns and he continues before Yakov can ask him what he means. “I’m here, keep your shirt on.” 

It’s too much to hope it won’t get back to Viktor. He’s the only person Yakov enjoys shouting at more than Yuri. A sore, tender part of Yuri almost relishes it — thinking of the moment Viktor realizes. 

At best, Viktor will keep it to himself and it will be awkward. But Yuri knows Viktor Nikiforov better than that. The prospect of Yuuri’s face when Viktor tells him is less entertaining and comes with a certain measure of dread. 

But there’s nothing Yuri can do about it now. He’ll burn that bridge when he crosses it.

**Author's Note:**

> “You can only be jealous of someone who has something you think you ought to have yourself.”  
> ― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale


End file.
